


Until Now

by littlelionlady



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gaby is a pickpocket, Hurt Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Illya Whump, Illya got shot what do you expect, M/M, Multi, Napoleon is a Bad Ass, Post-Canon, Pre-OT3, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, bit of blood, hand holding, okay like a lot of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: Napoleon has always been excellent at hiding his true feelings. He's made a career of wearing a mask, of keeping himself at a distance. He hasn't felt strongly about anything for quite some time. Not until Rome. Not until Istanbul.Not until Illya is bleeding out in an alleyway and Napoleon is the only thing standing between his life and death.





	Until Now

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun/pseuds/Darkest_Sun) for having a quick read through this. Your enthusiasm always helps me finish something. 
> 
> Just want to preface this by saying this is PRE OT3. There is no slash here. Just love and comradery that everyone is confused by. Stressful situations usually involve a lot of complicated feelings. I think I wanted to show that here, and I hope I've done it justice. 
> 
> And finally, sorry for my complete absence recently. Y'all - life is CRAZY right now. Thankyou for your patience. Hope this fic doesn't hurt too much.

Napoleon Solo was excellent at his job. If he was not, he wouldn’t be allowed to keep it, or his freedom, or his life. Sanders made sure of that. Everything Napoleon did was a calculated risk. Everything was behind a thick veneer, and that was exactly the way he liked it. There was always a part to play, and he played each and every one of them flawlessly, for such a flawed man. Those were the rules, they had always been the rules; no one was allowed to see, _ no one could know _ exactly how he felt, who he was, _ what _he was. That was just dangerous. 

He had a close call in Italy, when he watched the speedboat sinking in the small bay the Vinciguerra’s owned. He watched the fire burn, and the boat fill and tip, and for some unknown reason all he could think of was what he had said, rescuing Gaby in Germany, “It just doesn’t seem right.” Something inside him dipped, low and sickening. A dull throb in the pit of his stomach. 

“Watch me work Cowboy.” That thick accent ringing in his head made his throat close over. 

It made perfect sense at the time, to drive the truck over the edge of the dock and crush as many Nazis as he could before he pulled that great hulking lug from the cool, briny water. It wasn’t something he was feeling, he had told himself. He just wouldn’t be able to finish the job if he didn’t have the Russian idiot with him. That was the rule. They were assigned partners and that was the rule. It was two birds with one stone; Sanders couldn’t sneeze in the face of some dead Nazis. That’s all he ever talked about. Napoleon wondered if it was all he felt too. 

Napoleon wondered what it would be like to feel something like that; something strong. He hadn’t felt strongly about something for a long time. Not until Rome. Not until Istanbul. Not until now. 

Napoleon has seen men shot before, in The War and in The Field. It never fails to turn his stomach. It’s always a tragedy, always jarring. What he never is, is frightened. 

Until now. Of course. 

It takes him a moment to identify the feeling, the shock rendering him frozen and numb for a few seconds. Everything seems to have stopped, even though he can still hear the bullets zipping past, slightly too close for him to be able to afford to stop and _ panic. _But that’s what the feeling is, it’s panic, cold and hard and making it difficult to breathe. Napoleon feels like his heart isn’t pumping anymore, he can’t get any oxygen in. 

This is unlike him. Napoleon is dependable and adaptable. That is part of his seemingly expansive skill set. Steady and dependable. Except for now. 

Illya is bleeding. He’s lying on the ground, gun held loosely in his left hand and he’s white, and gasping, and _ bleeding _. Growing dark patches across his chest and abdomen. There’s a growing patch on his right shoulder too. Close to his neck. His blood is so red that for a moment Napoleon is sure it’s paint. That it’s just some elaborate ruse. Anything for it to not be real. 

But it is real. Napoleon knows it’s real because Illya looks him in the eye and for a brief moment there is nothing but fear in them, and Illya is never scared. But there is fear. And then he closes his eyes, and his head hits the pavement. 

“Shit.” 

There are no rules for this. There are no rules at U.N.C.L.E for saving your partner. It’s too young an organisation. There are only three agents and their handler. Waverley isn’t Sanders either. He doesn’t threaten Napoleon. 

But Napoleon feels threatened now, by something far worse than captivity. 

He turns out from the alleyway and fires blindly in the direction the bullets are coming from. Its a two exit alley, and there is no one on the other side yet, which means it’s just pure dumb luck he has a chance to get Illya out. Maybe because the heroic idiot had decimated this particular militia's forces not fifteen minutes before hand. 

A lot can change in fifteen minutes. 

Napoleon fires again, and is rewarded with an angry grunt as the bullet connects. 

He holsters his weapon and makes a grab for Illya’s. He’s still unconscious. He doesn’t really stop to think about what he’s about to do, or how he is going to make this work. Not thinking is usually Peril’s job, but when he is otherwise indisposed, it seems that Napoleon finds the need to take on the role as complete and utter lunatic. 

He made the mistake of thinking Illya’s idiocy as bravery, and then voicing the thought out aloud. Gaby had shredded him, calling the notion absurd and ranting about Illya’s lack of self-preservation and insanity. She had then turned to Napoleon and said he not only had the same tendencies, but that he encouraged that behaviour in Illya. 

Now, carrying Illya’s heavy, warm blood soaked body down the alley and out onto the next block over, Napoleon could see what Gaby meant. It was his idea not to call for back up when Illya had decided to stand and fight instead of running. For a man who spent hours, days, weeks, months, years constantly _ running, _Napoleon was only just starting to wonder exactly what he was running for, if he is only going to turn around, stand and fight. 

He drops Illya carefully against the carriage of a parked car and ducks down next to him, ripping the microphone that is taped to Illya’s chest out of his shirt and breathing harshly into it, the weight of Illya and supreme panic crushing his frozen lungs tighter together in his chest. 

Illya is turning grey. 

“Gaby,” he exhales, “What’s the ETA?”

There is a faint crackling on the line before her voice chimes in, distorted by the signal, “Four minutes,” she says. 

Napoleon looks at Illya again. He is bleeding still, heavily. Napoleon can feel where it’s soaked into the back of his shirt, and is drying, caked and sticky to his skin. He pulls it over his head and rips it in half before lying Illya down, flat, in the gutter. There are too many wounds to cover; Napoleon can count four. He tries to decide which ones are bleeding the most. They all are. He rips at Illya’s shirt too, and pushes some of the cloth from his own to Illya’s shoulder, and the other half to his chest. He tries to make Illya hold the one on his abdomen so he can try to staunch the blood flowing freely from what Napoleon suspects is a nicked artery next to his clavicle, but Illya won’t hold the cloth. His hand is slack, arm loose. 

And that is when Napoleon notices. Illya is not breathing. His chest isn’t moving. 

“No,” he mutters through numb lips, “No, Illya.” 

There are footsteps in the distance, and briefly Napoleon wonders if they are friend or foe. He unholsters his gun. 

Napoleon is alone in the world. Napoleon is alone, and it is a feeling he does not like. After being alone for so long, only to familiarise yourself with the constant presence of a body whose job it is to cover you. There are no rules for this. There are no rules for when your partner stops breathing. 

He turns on his heel, still squatting next to Illya’s paint red blood soaked body, and briefly notices that the footsteps are foe. He pulls the trigger. One, two, three, four, five times. Each body drops as though their strings were cut. Brain matter splattering over the pavement behind them. He takes twisted satisfaction in that.

Napoleon turns back to Illya, disregarding the still half loaded weapon at his feet. Napoleon feels like he’s in a dream. He also feels sick. 

He does the only thing he can do; he starts compressions on Illya. By the third set, he still doesn’t have a response and Illya’s blood is coming out faster than ever. Napoleon wagers that he doesn’t have much left to lose, but still, it keeps coming, thick and red over his hands and forearms and knees - the tips of his shoes and his shins too. 

He picks up the microphone with slippery fingers and tries to ignore the roil in his stomach, still partially attached to Illya, and leans over it again, frantically grabbing at the Russian’s clothes with his free hand.

“Gaby, ETA?” 

“Four minutes.” 

It’s been four minutes for a while now. Napoleon is unsure how long Illya has been without oxygen for. But he can’t go another four minutes. 

“Well hurry the fuck up, he’s not breathing.” 

He hears her step on the gas, Waverley in the background calling shots. There are sirens coming. Solo keeps pushing. 

"Breathe, you absolute fuckwit," he pushes down again. 

“Illya, goddamn it,” Napoleon tips Illya’s head slightly back with a hand under his neck, and leans down to push more air into his partner’s lungs. He tastes metal and salt in Illya’s mouth.

He pulls back and keeps pushing, ignoring the burn in his deltoids and biceps, the ache in his throat. His vision is blurring, and he knows he’s lost his rhythm now. He’s just beating at Illya’s chest. 

Napoleon, warm salty tears threatening to spill, tips Illya’s hair and forces more air into his lungs, the taste of blood beginning to overwhelm him, permeate his lungs. Illya’s shallow breath meets Napoleon’s. 

He doesn’t open his eyes, but Illya is breathing, albeit shallowly. 

Napoleon could weep with relief if it wasn’t for the fact that Illya is still bleeding. He picks the rags of his shirt back up and presses them into the wounds on the Russian’s chest. He takes Illya’s hand and makes him hold the cloth to the wound on his neck. Napoleon is only slightly relieved when Illya’s fingers squeeze back feebly when the cloth is first pressed into it. 

He’s trying to tend to the wounds on Illya’s chest and guts when the ambulance _ (finally) _ pulls up. He should be glad, because really he has no idea what he’s doing and the amount of blood puddled around him is making him a bit hysterical. He can feel it bubbling with the ache in his throat and idly wonders where he learnt all these feelings. Did they come when there were no rules? He should be glad the paramedics are there, but they’re forcing him away and into an ambulance of his own, and he doesn’t want that. He wants to make sure Illya is safe. He wants to make sure Illya is _ alive. _

It isn’t until he pulls another gun, this time his own, that they acquiesce. Waverley’s commanding _ No _is what stops him pulling the trigger. He wonders how he looks to his handler; if he looks as crazed and disoriented as he feels. He wonders if he looks like he’s feeling anything at all. He tries to imbue feeling back into his face, wondering what position his mouth and eyes are in, but everything is still numb with adrenaline. His eyes meet his superior’s before he is ushered into the ambulance after Illya. He fleetingly sees Gaby, standing with her hand over her mouth and slightly green, next to Waverley, before the doors are closed and the ambulance is hurtling off towards the closest hospital. He wonders if he will see her there. 

Napoleon closes his eyes, trying to focus his breathing and ease the hammering of his heart in his chest. He could feel it in his optical nerve, and the back of his throat, thumping away, making his head throb without pain. He could feel it in the pulse points in his wrists and neck. 

Paramedics fuss over Illya, ignoring Napoleon in the corner. He tries to stay out of their way, while they administer painkillers and blood coagulants. Illya's lost too much blood, and he can hear them say so. Napoleon catches a glimpse of his partner over the paramedics; his breathing is ragged and shallow, and he sounds a little like he’s choking. Napoleon wants to fix it. He opens his mouth to say something, but the doctors have already noticed. 

It’s a blur then. Illya is doing something called ‘coding.’ He’s dying. He’s lost too much blood and he’s dying, and Napoleon is starting to realise that he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here to watch his partner die. His friend. 

He knows that Illya has saved him a thousand times; he knows because he has saved Illya too. Illya has carried him for miles after he was poisoned in Dubai, and stayed with him all night while he sweated and shook and vomited until he was empty and dry. Illya has dived after him, and pulled him from the Neva River in Russia. He has literally given Napoleon the shirt off his back, and pulled him out of an electric chair in Italy, at the beginning of their tumultuous relationship. Napoleon had dragged him from the bottom of Vinciguerra bay, and had snapped the neck of a yakuza boss who had held Illya in a meat locker and broken all his ribs and his left cheekbone, with his bare hands. Napoleon doesn’t remember the feeling behind it, other than blind rage. But feeling so strongly had been so new, so frightening. Giving it too much power would have made it too real. 

They do not always like each other; Illya is controlling and too-tidy, almost obsessive compulsive in his need for order. He has an exceptionally short fuse, and on more than one occasion Napoleon has picked a fight with him; to burn off post mission adrenaline, to feel that deep swoop in the bottom of his gut again, intoxicating and frightening all at the same time. Illya was prone to bouts of silence, pessimistic introspection, and unhealthy obsession; not to mention an affinity for breaking things when someone, _ anyone _threw an insult. But even if they do not always like each other, they respect each other. They trust each other; they cover each other’s backs and flanks. They help each other, keep each other safe. They are comrades, partners. Napoleon is not good at making friends but he made one out of Illya. He would give Illya anything, do anything. 

And if Illya was willing to cover Napoleon by taking a few bullets, Napoleon is pretty sure Illya cares too. 

And now Napoleon was going to watch him die. 

He sits cold and shaking, sick with fear and well out of the way. The beeping is a continual sound and Napoleon knows what that means. His stomach is sinking, his heart rising in his throat. 

Someone is shouting for everyone to stand back, and then Illya’s body is rising and falling off the table, electricity forcing his heart to beat. A manic part of Napoleon recognises the irony of the situation; Illya finally feeling what Napoleon felt. Only this time, it’s supposed to save his life, not take it the way Rudy had intended for the American. 

The beeping picks up again. It’s not evenly spaced, it’s all over the place and weak, but it’s there and Napoleon lets out the breath he’s been holding. 

When the truck stops, Napoleon is pushed out the door first and told to wait inside. Someone leads him to a waiting room, and he knows he must look shocking. People are staring at him, and giving him a wide berth. It’s only then that he notices he still has Illya’s blood on him, he's covered in it. Bare chested and covered in dried blood. It's over his chest and arms and dried brown and cracked. He’s shaking and pacing, and then Gaby arrives and makes him sit. She slings the canvas satchel off her shoulder and dumps it in Napoleon’s lap. He knows what it is, and he wants to be grateful. Clean clothes would help him pull himself together, he knows this. And yet he can’t seem to find it in himself to stand and find somewhere to change. She holds his hand, blood and all, and a nurse comes out and ushers them into an examination room behind a glass doorway and down sterile smelling hallway. As soon as the door closes behind them, Napoleon is demanding to be let out and taken to Illya. 

It takes Gaby fifteen minutes of arguing, pointing out that he needs to be checked out too because all that blood cannot be just Illya's, and finally threatening to put him in three months of desk duty before he acquiesces. 

Not all the blood is Illya’s thank the gods, but most of it is. 

The nurse stitches up a graze on Napoleon’s right bicep and hands him two painkillers for the concussion. He doesn’t remember hitting his head. She disappears for ten minutes, and under Gaby’s watchful scrutiny (she knows him well enough to know he would bolt for it) gets changed into the loose button down and spare tactical trousers, using the sink in the corner and a handful of paper towels to wipe as much blood off as he can. It’s still caked in under his fingernails and in his cuticles, and he’s sure it’s probably matted in his hair somehow. He’s covered in Illya and, for a brief moment, it winds him. His clothes are ruined, and Gaby gathers them up and shoves them back into the satchel. She nudges his shoes back towards his feet, gesturing that he should put them on. 

He does, of course, but silently vows to throw them away at the first opportunity. It’s a waste of Italian leather, be Napoleon thinks he’s had enough of Italian things for a while. 

Finally, Gaby reaches into her own handbag and pulls out his service weapon and holster. 

“I stole them before Waverley noticed you had left them behind,” she says by way of explanation. Napoleon nods gratefully and slips the shoulder holster of his back. The familiar weight settles something inside him. He pulls his jacket back over the top. 

The nurse comes back with a cup of sweet tea and a grim expression. Napoleon’s stomach feels heavy, like he swallowed cement. He feels like he is going to be sick, and he can feel the blood drawing out of his face and fingertips, and running full pelt to his thumping heart. 

She presses the paper cup into his hand. 

"What’s wrong?”

Gaby’s voice shakes. 

The nurse shakes her head and gives them a smile that doesn’t crease her face the same way a true smile would. It doesn’t meet her eyes. Napoleon knows this because he has mastered how to smile on command. 

“What happened to him?” 

He doesn’t feel his mouth moving but he knows it’s his own voice that vibrates off the walls. 

She sighs, “It’s your friend. His heart stopped again.” 

Gaby makes a strangled noise next to Napoleon and he grips her hand so tight one of her knuckles cracks. She doesn’t notice. 

“It’s okay,” the nurse tries to soothe them, a wrinkle forming between her brows. She looks tired, “It’s okay. They restarted him,” _ like a computer _Napoleon thinks. 

Of course they would think that; they don’t _ know _ him like Napoleon and Gaby do. They had thought he was nothing more than a machine when they met him. He had chased them through the streets of Berlin like a one-man army. He had _ pulled the back off a car. _That had screamed super human.

But Illya was just a man. And he was a better man than Napoleon could ever hope to be. But gods be damned if he isn’t going to at least try. He notices when Gaby and Illya notice he’s gone a whole day without letting his itching fingers delve into pockets. He notices when Illya smiles behind his back because he’s cooked them dinner _ and _done the dishes. He notices when Gaby shakes a bemused head while he stitches Peril up as to not leave a scar, “But I want one to match the others,” the Russian would say, and Napoleon would mock him with, “It doesn’t have to match.” 

He wants to do them proud. He wants to make them smile. 

His chest aches with it. 

He squeezes Gaby’s hand again. She gives him a watery smile. 

“I’m sure he will be fine,” she whispers, bumping her shoulder to his and stealing the tea the nurse bought him. All he can reply with is a nod. She understands. She always does. 

At some point during their gruelling wait, Waverley arrives and sequesters away Napoleon’s weapon and clothing. He is indignant, but Waverley just taps his foot and holds out an expectant hand, like a parent at the edge of their patience with a particularly stubborn child. 

“You’ll get them back chap,” he says, a wan smile on his face, “Shoes too.” 

Napoleon has no doubt, because he will steal them back himself tomorrow, but for now he is without a weapon or shoes, and it has left him feeling vulnerable and bereft. 

Gaby reaches back into her bag and pulls out her own service weapon. 

“Won’t you be without then?” he asks. 

She snorts, unladylike, and Napoleon is reminded that Gaby is first and foremost a mechanic, regardless of how she dresses, “No,” and then she produces a small, tortoise shell handled swiss army knife from the inside pocket of her bag. The blade gleams sharp, and Napoleon is glad Gaby knows how to wield it. 

“I pick pocketed Waverley last week. He either hasn’t noticed yet or doesn’t care.” 

Something loosens in Napoleon’s chest again. He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair off Gaby’s forehead, “You’re improving.” 

She smiles warmly and leans into the touch, “Or he just hasn’t learned yet.” 

It’s another six hours before Illya comes out of surgery. The doctors are tired and say that he is not _ out of the woods yet _, but Napoleon and Gaby shake their hands, and follow the nurse to Illya’s room. Gaby mutters that she doesn't know what the doctors mean. Napoleon explains the idiom, but his eyes are always on the hall in front of them. Illya looks horrible but there is a significant lack of blood surrounding him now, and he’s breathing. The shadows under his eyes suggest he will be asleep for a while. Napoleon can breathe again too. Gaby moves to Illya’s other side, and sits in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair that has been provided for visitors. She takes his permanently bruised hand in hers, rests her forehead against the side of his thin mattress and promptly falls asleep. 

Napoleon knows she must be tired. Gaby never falls asleep like that. Or maybe it’s just the relief of seeing _ him _ breathing evenly and hearing the heart monitor offer a steady _ beep beep beep _instead of the continuous chant of a still pulse. He knows that sound is going to haunt him for the next year. 

He sits in the other chair, leaning against the wall and right up next to Illya’s head. Napoleon watches his companions for hours. The clock on the wall says eleven, but he's not sure if that's morning or night. He watches them, and the clock until he finally falls asleep too, glad Illya’s alive and angry he’s so _ bloody noble. _

“You really have to stop saving me Peril,” he whispers, just as his eyes droop shut. He makes a mental note to say that to Illya when they’re both more awake.

Sometime during the night, Napoleon’s hand finds Illya’s and a blanket has been laid over his lap. He’s grateful for it, if not a little embarrassed to have been caught holding another man’s hand. Gaby’s gun is digging uncomfortably into his hip, and he considers, for a brief moment, unclipping the weapon and dropping it back into Gaby’s bag. 

Illya’s fingers flex around his and he attempts to disentangle himself from the Russian, only to have his hand squeezed tighter. The monitor next to the bed thuds out a few heart palpitations. Illya refuses to open his eyes. Napoleon squeezes back gently. 

“Squeeze once for yes, twice for no, okay?” he whispers next to Illya’s ear as to not wake Gaby who is still leaning against Illya’s mattress. He squeezes once. 

“Do you know where you are?” he squeezes once for yes. Napoleon nods to himself. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Illya squeezes once again. 

“Do you need a nurse?” One squeeze. Napoleon lets go of Illya’s hand and leaves the room to find a nurse. She follows him back to Illya who, at a glance, looks peaceful. But Napoleon recognises the downward turn of his lips, the pain creases around his eyes. 

She checks his vitals, and administers a syringe of what Napoleon can only assume is morphine. 

“This will put you back to sleep for a bit love,” she says to Illya, patting his hand. Napoleon sees him wince. The nurse leaves after informing Napoleon to come and collect her should Illya require anything else. She wrinkles her nose at Napoleon’s appearance once. 

He sits back next to his slowly drifting partner and puts his hand on the mattress. He can’t bring himself to reach other again. That would feel too much like a defeat. He lets Illya sleep. 

Illya wakes again a few hours later. In the time he has been asleep, Gaby has managed to find food and coffee, and has persuaded Napoleon to eat half a sandwich and drink something. She’s also convinced him to shower in the small bathroom cubicle adjacent to Illya’s room. He has washed most of the blood out of his hair, but it is unbearably tangled. Gaby secretly likes him this way; utterly dishevelled and completely accessible. 

They’re sitting back on either side of Illya when he groans and opens his eyes, mouth thick and foul tasting. He wants to drink something, but it hurts to swallow and breathe. His partners are leaning over him, brows creased and eyes glassy with fear. 

“_ Privet _,” he mumbles, blinding rapidly and cursing that even his eyelids ache. 

“Hello to you too,” Gaby smiles warm and comforting and sits back in her chair. 

Napoleon on the other hand is already up and pacing. He’s white and sick looking and Illya wonders if somehow his partner was injured. 

Instead, Napoleon rounds on him, “I was so fucking-” he cuts himself off, voice cracking and looks away. He looks pinched and unkempt and immediately Illya feels the loss of that piercing blue gaze. He wants it back. 

“What?” Illya croaks, “Worried?”

Worried doesn’t begin to cover it. 

Napoleon nods, once. Tight and thin lips. It's more of a jerk of his head. 

"Well," Illya mutters, closing his eyes against the onslaught of pain as he evens his breathing, "Now you know how I feel every time you get caught," his voice is chafed, and he hopes mocking. Napoleon sits back in the chair closest to Illya’s head. They sit in silence, and Illya can tell that his partner is still vibrating with unspent energy. 

He doesn’t have it in him for a fight right now, so he reaches out and takes Napoleon’s hand in his. 

Napoleon pretends not to notice, but squeezes back.

He never would have allowed this. Until now. Of course.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr! [thelittlelionlady](https://thelittlelionlady.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi!


End file.
